


The unloveable Ivan Braginskij

by Zaunerstolle



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AmeRus - Freeform, English, Literature, M/M, RusAme, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5266883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaunerstolle/pseuds/Zaunerstolle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Good evening everyone!</p><p>I hope you enjoyed chapter 2 of my work. (If so it'd be really awesome if you'd left a kudo or even a comment on here, it really would mean the world to me.) I have so much things planned for this story and I hope I can implement everything as enjoyable for you as possible!! Thanks a lot for reading! ♥</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Alfred F. Jones and his perception of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grau/gifts).



_Alfred F. Jones was a cheerful fellow with a big, bright smile - everlasting on his face - that greeted everyone who happened to pass by. It was literally impossible to not love him. I know the word literally is way too often and above all often falsely used in the English language – but believe me at least this once when I say: Not finding something loveable about Alfred was literally impossible._

_However, Ivan Braginskij was a cold-hearted person. He too always had a smile on his face but other than bright I’d describe it as unsettling, freezing even. Something unintendedly malicious laid within it. I suppose many would tell you it was literally impossible to find something loveable about Ivan Braginskij._

_Isn’t it therefore ironic that Alfred F. Jones – Alfred F. Jones of all people - should be the one proving them wrong by falling for him? Falling for the unlovable Ivan Braginskij - and falling deeply._

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I know exactly what love is all about!” Alfred proudly declared without having the slightest idea. Believe me, I am an expert at such things, but he looked so bright and happy like always that nobody had the heart to disagree. 

By now everyone had gathered in the little tavern right around the corner of the British parliament for a drink or two after the meeting. For most of them it was the only place they knew by heart in England – The official country’s meeting rooms in the main building and the little private meeting chambers in the pub three streets from there. Especially non-European nations only travelled to London for business and didn’t have the time to dwell on its charming spots, but the little tavern around the corner was a term for everyone, it held this special magic within that made you forget the quarrels, the disagreements, the fights and tensions you had faced just an hour ago and let you convene in peace. Not a single soul spoke about work here. About sights, news, silly cat videos, music, family – they told jokes, stories of their everyday life and unbelievable things that had happened in their capital last week – you see, they talked about everything but work. And when the night got older and older, ready to make place for the young day to detach it and the alcohol spread in their blood and exhilarated their tempers – they sometimes talked about love too.

“Is that so, Alfred? Enlighten us," an amused voice hummed across the table, followed by some giggles not coming from her. Monaco smiled brightly and rose her glass of wine, pointing it into his direction as if to encourage him to finally spit it out. What a wonderful, honest, witty and reliable lady she was – yet so shrewd, so cunning. Alfred’s blue depths brightened immediately as the whole room’s unfettered attention was now drawn to him. Oh how he loved to be the centre of everyone’s eyes, everyone’s thoughts. He was so good at it, it almost came naturally to stand up and wanting to talk to him, wanting to be approved by him, wanting to be noticed. And he had this speciality of noticing everyone, presenting everyone his time and energy. Surrounding yourself with Alfred always had a soothing undertone. “Glad you’re asking, bro!” he buzzed triumphantly what earned him a playful wink from the Monegasque as he theatrically slammed his palms onto the counter and arose from his seat.

Alfred cleared his throat and stroke a solemn pose - the sight itself looked ridiculously charming already - as he started elucidating excessively, "Love is about protecting each other and watch corny movies together while making out in the back row and love is about, like, thousands of red roses and stars and fighting the bullies together and-" "Good point, cher," Monaco interrupted him before it got too ridiculous, although I wasn't sure if there was any hope left for him. Most of the others had started laughing, but it wasn't a mean laughter, they all deemed his description rather endearing. Some of them seemed in thoughts, a melancholic, dreamy smile curling around their lips as they glanced over the room to lock their eyes with one another. I love little gestures like this. It always happened naturally, wordlessly, without arranging terms. There were no words needed anyway, no words for those little truths untold. Alfred's eyes locked with no one's, he was too fired up in his monologue and now he appeared rather disgruntled that he got yanked out of it so abruptly.

"All of you, put your cards on the table," it was ridiculously stereotypical that Monaco out of all people had to say it like this, but some things were like they were and especially beings like us have a fine line between acting the way humanity expected us and how we in fact wanted to, "What could love possibly be about?"

The ambiance was nice this evening, the one or other glass had been drained already and everyone seemed more like humming little tunes than actually speaking. I don't remember a single disgruntled face this evening, not even in a playful manner. Every condition was given to lure an answer to this personal question out of every present being in those humble halls. So it didn't take long until Arthur - I suppose he had drunk the stated other glass or two - attended the task of breaking the first ground by questioning the other's assertion to begin with, "What do you know about love, chap?" He sighed theatrically while Alfred puffed out his cheek, ready to vociferously object any second, but he didn't get the chance to for Arthur continued swiftly, "You are way too young to get an idea of its twisted games." Oh, this argument again, one of my favourites. Apart from the fact that America had already reached a certain age not only as a nationhood which his former guardian seemingly liked to forget or better said gloss over I am personally very doubtful about its value in general. "Love comes in many forms," Antonio interjected and I loved him for that. "You can fall in love with, por ejemplo, good food or a sunny morning or a siesta when you have a rough day." 

"Or a piece of music, a soothing tune," Roderich annotated, followed by a "Or a good book, a movie, oui, oui, we know about that," from the Monegasque's side once more. She looked playfully irritated. "But that, mes amis, was not what I was asking for. Come on, we are entre nous after all, right? We want to help little Alfred to get a better idea of it, right?" Abashed hush for a brief moment, as some mumbling "Someone reliable would be nice..." could be heard from a corner a bit remote from the lively centre of the discussion as Ludwig had pattered his input seemingly more to himself than to the broad audience currently listening. "Yeah and someone you can like tell everything to," Feliks added promptly, followed by an "And won't think it's stupid when you tell them your dreams and strange thoughts on heavy issues or so..." by his seatmate Toris.

"Having a fun time and sharing similar interests is important as well, I guess," Elizaveta - stunningly beautiful this lady, fierce temperament, yet soothing features and silken hair framing them, a blessing to this broken world if you ask me - put her oar in. This rush of arguments triggered a whole chain of contributions coming from all sides of the tavern and everyone listened, agreed enthusiastically or countered eagerly. It indeed was a sight to see, a wonderful scene to be part of. Tomorrow they will shatter their heads in daily routine again, but today they are fathoming the essence of love as if they were all best friends, well, what they technically could be if not so many obstacles would hinder them. 

Alfred got a bit lost in the heat of the discussion, unable to follow everything that had been shouted across the room due to his restricted attention span. He wasn't quite sure if Monaco had initiated this to make fun of him or actually do him a favour. It was a fine line, he supposed, like everything regarding the Monegasque. But for a reason that was exactly why he liked her. She was up for every dumb idea he had in store for her, she never said no to a challenge and she took everything with humour despite being immensely insightful and clever. If just everyone here would be this affable it would make his life a lot easier... 

Lost in thoughts his eyes wandered through the room filled with vivid argument. Apparently he had stroke a chord by bringing this up and Alfred was equally proud of and pleased with himself. Everyone seemed so energetic, he somehow absorbed it and felt motivated for no prudent reason in particular. He took a deep breath, ready to engage into the conversation once more as he suddenly noticed something. There was a table, a table next to the counter, it was a bit darker there because the light didn't reach the very last corner of this asymmetrical premise. And to cap it all the spare light that rested above the people sitting at this table was flickering slightly. He of course knew them all, all their faces at least, but it was the kind of edge he hadn't had to deal with personally for a long time already. Apart from....

"Hey, big guy," he exclaimed excitedly, Ivan looked up. They locked eyes. For a moment - silence. "Me?" he inquired, evidently surprised as a bleak smile laid upon his lips. Alfred got chilly all of a sudden, strange. "Well, duh, yeah," he rolled his eyes and grinned boastfully. He couldn't help it. It was a reflex. "What about ya, heh? What is love about for good old Russia?" Addressed one's purple depths fixed the light glimmering above him while tilting his chin in the motion. "Не знаю," he mumbled barely audible.

"Maybe someone who keeps you warm would be nice."


	2. Sharp cold air and clear winter skies

Не знаю or ne znaju transcribed is Russian - surprise - and can be translated to "I don't know". So, my dear readers, what is there to do now with this sort of information? You may already knew this, there could be many reasons for that. At this point just a few examples: maybe you are native Russian speakers and those words come across you in your daily lives the most naturally. Or perhaps you are currently learning this highly misunderstood language and it, this "I don't know", haunts you as you frantically try to _dissent_ its meaning, to learn in order to do know. Or you just had come across it somewhere (in a book, a movie?) and just remembered. So why empathise it, why interrupting our story in favour of lingering at those simple two words, you may ask. Well, looking at the essence of this narration, of any narration actually, we don't have much left other than words. And I do believe that even the simplest words can unfold a hidden relevance if we just look closely enough, pay more attention. As I am your relator I am afraid you just have to trust me to pick the right words, the relevant ones. Anyhow, for I might am not the keenest on Russian literature, I whereas recall this certain line in Tolstoij's masterpiece "War and Peace" in which one figure asks another why they decided to go to war and their immediate, unhesitant answer is "не знаю" before they illustrate their ideological beliefs and patriotism in a forceful speech to vindicate their war. The point is, however, that war cannot be vindicated rationally in any way and the human mind subconsciously comprehended it even though it was veiled by swallow motives that some regime had implanted in it. And even we although we don't have that much of a particularly human mind sticking on us are no different from that. Therefore, when Ivan Braginskij got asked what his definition of love may be and the first thing coming to his mind was "не знаю" than that's probably the unrestricted truth of his inner core. 

But obviously Alfred F. Jones knew absolutely nothing about those things. Not because he was ignorant or not interested, no, it just never had occurred to him that they could possibly be of any value, of any meaning. That there could be a connection between what had been written down and what went on in the soul of someone who was deemed to live as a sheer epitome of something as abstract as a nation. Something created, something constructed. Something unable to think individually for the term excluded individuality almost naturally. Of course, Alfred wasn't different from that. But the difference laid within realisation. 

Instead, he felt it was rather chilly this November evening and he was immensely bored. Both circumstances provided a state he hated to be in. Alfred was a heated, impulsive and spontaneous character that had a hard time to sit still for there always was something to do, something to explore, some peace to disturb and something to mess up with panache. But the place he currently was sitting around at, however, was his former guardian's airport and he possessed just about enough wit and self restraint to realise causing any trouble at London's airport wasn't a particularly good idea. It was cold and he wanted to go home already, but his flight was delayed due to a sudden snow storm - obviously, at his luck - and most of the others had already gone, caught their flights or trains. Yes, there were indeed some nations that travelled back by train. Roderich for example because he was one of the old fashion type and still very suspicious of airplanes what was hardly comprehensible for Alfred, but hey, whatever floated his boat. And because he was a curiously beloved fellow the one or other would shoulder the hassle and costs of a long train ride just to accompany and spend some time with him. Thinking about it like this, it was rather endearing. Alfred felt a bit jealous for a bit, but shook it off quickly and prospected for someone he could dawdle away with. He was a rather gregarious bloke, an excellent conversation starter and something always drew you to him, almost magically. There should be someone he could talk to until the check-in started, maybe the charming barista of the coffee shop he had seen before? Or the stewardess that allowed herself a break before her next operation? What about the dainty guy that had had his troubles with the vending machine just the other minute, as Alfred had noticed?

While he was looking around to eventually decide who to accost in the crowd of people and stores and suitcases he spotted someone familiar, somehow unexpected - namely Ivan Braginskij himself. Alfred screw up his nose, followed by a grin spreading on his lips, in his eyes. It sure wasn't the best company he could have asked for, but at least there was someone he could talk to easily who would bypass his boredom. Zealously he plodded toward him, waving his arms enthusiastically while loudly announcing his approach: "Yo, big guy!!!! What's up?"

Ivan was deeply rapt in thought while he was waiting at the Londoner airport for his flight. The air connections from London to Moscow were terrible, he had already complained about it multiple times but Kirkland never seemed to care much. Or maybe it wasn't situated in his sphere of influence. Either way he'd usually have to wait days for a nonstop flight or hazard the hassle of flying via Amsterdam which was equally ineffective and exhausting. But today he was more or less in fortune for the meeting was on one of the days on which he was blessed with a nonstop flight - it just took off rather late and everyone else already had gone. Or at least he had thought so as he pensively browsed through some documents a bit offside of the airport's busy bustle. He had gotten one of them again, he thought mildly concerned, but didn't get the chance to inspect it any further as a familiar voice startled him, causing him to adjust his files and letters calmly and looking up. Oh. Just Alfred, he noted lightly disappointed.

"Привет," Ivan casually greeted in Russian, half out of habit, half in hope to disgruntle the American. He wasn't even sure why he wanted Alfred to get mad over everything he did or said, why it was such a _longing_ to bother him. But it was. Not enough with that, it was a deep concern of Ivan and that fact, ironically, bothered himself. "Still here?"

"Yeah," Alfred sighed while bending over and took a seat next to the Russian, leant forward, his legs spread, his thighs supporting his forearms, his blonde bangs falling into his face as he huffed, determined to properly express his annoyance and exhaustion over the situation. "Delayed flight. That sucks, man. Why are ya still here?"

"My flight late in the first place," Ivan answered bluntly, unsure what to do with his hands, Alfred took up so much space next to him so, he felt, he had to counter. He stretched his back and tilted his head aside. "Nothing unusual, hm. Happens all the time." 

The American bounced his heels up and down, looking around a bit while pushing his thumb against his right nasal wing. Avoiding the other's gaze. "Uh, aha? That sucks, man," he repeated without noticing he had already used that set of words. "What do ya usually do to pass the time then? I am bored to death y'know." He didn't even have to point that out. Ivan had already figured. Just why, however, did he have to play his personal entertainer? It was no use to rudely resign this conversation though, and Ivan was slightly bored himself. Or rather, he didn't want to think about the letter upon his documents. It was blue, yes, light blue, not turquoise, not azure, not - heaven forbid - dark blue, but blue, however. And blue letters never meant anything good. "Doing paperwork," damn it, didn't he plan to not think about it? Yet he even spoke it out aloud? "Reading books," he hastily added. "Know what that is, фредка? A book?" 

"Ha, ha." Why again did Alfred decide that approaching the Russian in the first place would have been a good idea? Man, he asked himself that question a lot, because he did this mistake a lot. Okay, maybe it was a bit exaggerated to call it a mistake. It wasn't that he never had gained anything from talking to Ivan Braginskij, even if it was just a bit of amusement, a slice of victory at times even, however there always was an angry undertone. "Snide remark, Braginskij. Good one. But you can hardly call that a book." He pointed at one lying next to the broad thighs of the other. You know what? Screw his good manners, Alfred reached over Ivan's lap to grab it. Braginskij huffed, but let him. The American tossed it from one hand to another, browsed through it and randomly stopped at a page in the middle, screwing up his nose and was determined to look as judging as possible. Just in case Ivan hadn't gotten the idea already.

The book was written in Cyrillic, or how Alfred liked to put it, weird commie letters that totally were made up and couldn't be even real for Christ's sake, what do you mean there are other alphabets apart from the American one - and what do you mean it's not American but Latin? Its binding was plain and hackneyed. Oh, and brown, but although it was the first thing to see Alfred somehow didn't consider that a very useful information. It was thick, holy, he hardly had seen such a thick book before. And the letters were all really tiny, hardly any gaps between the lines, the words were visible. It looked like one endless line of strange symbols. Alfred lost interest.

Almost. "Братья Карамазовы," Ivan bluntly noted. 

"Huh?"

"The title. Братья Карамазовы." Ivan hesitated, looking up at the ceiling at nothing in particular as he tried to find the right words to translate it. It wasn't that hard, obviously, but it was a book title anyhow. Somebody at some place already had translated it some time ago and once a title was translated it had to be used whether you deemed another - or in this case your own - translation more appropriate or not. "The Brothers Karamazov." 

"Kara-what."

"Karamazov," Ivan sighed roughly and pointed at the book as if the most obvious things couldn't be expected from Alfred. Named one found himself a bit at a loss at what to do with this information now. He had never heard of that before, of course, it was a Russian book and he hardly read any translations in the first place. And, well, most certainly not from Russian origin. On the other hand, what had he been expecting? For Ivan reading French literature? Or German one? He laughed to himself. Boy, what an unknowing, uncultured twat. 

Ivan on the other hand wasn't sure what to make out of his laughter. He watched Alfred's features soften, his shoulders ebbing with his giggled breathes, all joy over the littlest things including his own mischief chiming in his chuckles and Ivan felt weird from this sight, so he looked away and tried to mimic something similar to a smile? It was hard to describe Ivan's smiles, I mean, yes, seeing the curl on his thin lips would resemble what we call a smile, yet something was missing in it. Some warmth, maybe, some heartfelt delight or whatever. But to defend him here, there wasn't really anything delightful about the observation of your literature being judged. My dear readers, you are all human, I suppose, you are all mortal and when push comes to shove, all of you are living for yourselves. It is a bit different with us. It affects us in a supremely unfathomable way when something written (or drawn or sung or said, you get the idea) by one of ours is being criticised. It inevitably equals criticism at our very own persona. For instance, in hopes to phrase it a bit clearer, you can dislike France and still like a particular Frenchman, yet you can never dislike France, its literature, its food or its music and still like Francis Bonnefoy. Because if you'd subtract all those items then what was left of a Francis Bonnefoy, an Arthur Kirkland, an Ivan Braginskij? Nothing but a shell.

Alfred noticed that, his smile, and shuddered. He cleared his throat and put the book away carefully, almost as if it suddenly had turned out to be a great treasure. He straightened his back and intertwined his fingers, bobbing up and down a bit and flicking his tongue against his upper lip. Awkward. 

"Bro!" he abruptly exclaimed, his eyes wide open as he turned his head to look into Ivan's face who glanced directly into his eyes as well, equally surprised and curious at the American's sudden outburst. "Look what I am reading though, oh man, it is amazing, ya're gonna love it - I mean wow, it's great - wait a min'!" 

With a flourish he swang his torso away from the other and rummaged in his holdall, audibly pushing and shoving some stuff aside while swearing under his breath. Curiously Ivan leant a bit forward which caused his endlessly long scarf to fall over his shoulder and onto the floor where it began to spread but the Russian couldn't care less. Instead he made it a game for himself to think up all the possible things someone as unpredictable as Alfred could whip out of his bag. Maybe a fishhook. And then he'd explain excessively how he would be able to fight global warming with it. Or...or maybe a photograph of a wavy corn field, an ultimate proof of aliens existing? Oh - but hadn't he said something about what he had been reading? Silly you, Ivan - perhaps it is a treasure map then! As Ivan got childishly excited over his own thoughts he seemed rather disappointed at Alfred as he eventually pulled out a comic book and grinned like an idiot, in pride both in having found it and being able to present it to his companion now. He did so in such an enthusiastic and rash motion though without knowing that Ivan had come this close in his curiosity that the back of his hand swayed aside and lightly brushed Ivan's cheek in the motion. 

"Oh, boy, sorry, man!" he quickly apologised while Ivan - a bit speechless at the sudden unexpected encounter - just straightened his back to sit in an upright position once more and shook his head a bit too hastily to indicate Alfred it was nothing to be sorry about. By then he noticed where half of his scarf had gone to and Ivan quickly picked it up, messily throwing it over his shoulder once more, hiding his face almost up to his prominent nose in the motion. Could it be he was a bit sheepish?

"Uhm...What that?" 

"Hu?" Alfred just now noticed that Ivan pointed at the comic book. "Oh, ah, that!" Alfred cleared his throat and gently smacked the back of his hand onto the cover several times while trying to find the right words to describe his admiration towards it. It was already clearly visible in his lightened eyes, yet the words seemed to be stuck on the tip of his tongue and he felt it was a hard burden to find the right ones, articulating himself properly in order to make the other understand. Even more so because he knew it was Russia and Russia disliked everything that he himself adored so it would need a bit more than a 'Man this is great' to convince him of this story's brilliance. Eventually he grabbed it with both hands and pointed it joyfully into Ivan's direction with a pervasive gaze, particularly begging him to acknowledge its beauty. 

Braginskij, however, was a bit at a loss at Alfred's reaction. Once more. "Uh..." His eyes switched from the other's blue depths to the presented cover, back and forth, back and forth - until he decided to give in. It was late, okay. He just wanted to go home already. "Fables," he bluntly read what had been written down on the cover next to some colourful harshly drawn figures. There was so much information presented to him that somehow Ivan only observed the red. So much red. "Legends in Exile?"

"Yes, yes!!!" Little stars in Alfred's eyes. Immensely adorable if you ask me. Absolutely sickening, if you ask Ivan, though. There was a fine line, I suppose. "It's about - well it is set in New York okay, there are figures from all kinds of fairytales but they all have normal jobs and try to live their normal lives and - woah there is this guy, see? It's Bigby Wolf and HE IS SOME KIND OF SHERRIFF to Fabletown and - "

By now Ivan had somehow managed to wrest the object of Alfred's obvious desire and examined it genuinely attentively while the other kept on babbling and swooning and didn't seem to stop any time soon. The pictures were dismal and Ivan hadn't expected that. Frankly, Ivan never had felt the need to busy himself with what a classic comic book should look like - yet he had some sort of idea. Harsh black lines, many POWs and PENGs and shriekingly bright colours. And caps. Lot of caps and men in tight, weird, colourful attire. 

While Ivan kept on browsing through the pages, his face more scarf and frizzy hair than skin, his eyes thoughtfully wandering over the pages and Alfred kept on talking and talking and watching the Russian he made a strange notion. Beholding Ivan's sight like this, as he was right now, Alfred felt that Ivan looked like a hideaway, a safe place amid himself. He appeared so cold because everyone thought of grey winter skies and sharp cold air while looking at him. Russian aesthetics, he figured. And well, Alfred as well couldn't count himself as an exception to that. But he had to think about how he had brushed his cheeks just now and although it was nothing more but a mere touch it lasted long enough for him to notice how Ivan's cheek was soft and warm and nowhere near rough and cold and harsh. 

And this, my dear readers, - and as odd as that may sounds to you - was the first time someone thought of Ivan as an oven. A fire place - as crackling fire that magically refrained from giving in to violent snow storms trying their best to quench it. Fortune plays wicked games just for fun sometimes and although we have this deadlocked idea of those..those big, mighty, worldshaking signs that some greater good might sends to us just to _see_ \- and see in a new light - a different one, a brighter, clearer one - sometimes all we need is a stormy winter sky. 

Sharp cold air.

Clear winter skies.

And a warm cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening everyone!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed chapter 2 of my work. (If so it'd be really awesome if you'd left a kudo or even a comment on here, it really would mean the world to me.) I have so much things planned for this story and I hope I can implement everything as enjoyable for you as possible!! Thanks a lot for reading! ♥


End file.
